


1.6 Markers

by William_Easley



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Crime, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Easley/pseuds/William_Easley
Summary: When Soos's father comes home for the very last time, the experience causes ripples to spread among the people of Gravity Falls. Set in July 2013.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the show Gravity Falls or any of the characters. I do not make any money from the stories. I write for my own fun and from my love of the show, and for people who might find the stories amusing.

**Markers**

**By William Easley**

**(July 2013)**   

* * *

 

**_1: Journey’s End_ **

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _Tuesday, July 16. Something is going on—Mabel and I don’t know what._

_This morning as we were sitting at the table, planning out a video shoot about my search for the Venus woodpecker trap, Soos got a telephone call. He was real solemn afterward, and he asked me, “Dude, do you think I could ask your great-uncle Stan to cover for me for a couple days?”_

_“Sure, Soos,” I told him, a little surprised at being asked. “He loves to play the part of Mr. Mystery.”_

_“Would—would you call him for me, man? I don’t want to make him feel obligated or anything.”_

_This wasn’t like Soos, who’s been in a good mood since last Saturday afternoon, when we had a little birthday party for him. He likes what Mabel calls understated birthdays (by her definition, that’s any celebration that doesn’t involve elephants and cannons), and this was just a quiet gathering, but he got a few neat presents, including some knitted galoshes from Mabel that she swears are waterproof (don’t ask) and a high-tech watch from Grunkles Ford and Stan. I’d asked Mabel to knit a couple of Pterodactyl Bros sweaters way last winter, and she had one in my size (actually a little tight now that I’ve grown some) and one in Soos’s. He loved them. Anyway, this is the first day since Saturday that he hasn’t been cheerful._

_I_ _made the call, and Stan said, “Sure thing. Let me talk to the big knucklehead.”_

_So I gave the phone to Soos and when he shot us a meaningful look, we left the room so he’d have privacy._

_Mabel’s the one who tried to eavesdrop, but all she heard was something about his having to go to Canada for some reason. But anyhow, Grunkles Ford and Stan came over about an hour later, and Grunkle Stan put on the fez and the eyepatch and got ready for the next batch of tourists, and Grunkle Ford drove Soos with his suitcase to the airport in Portland to catch a commuter flight to Vancouver._

_Melody wouldn’t tell us anything, and Soos’s Abuela just looked a little mad. I caught Grunkle Stan in between performances and tried to pump him for information, but all he’d say was, “Soos will explain it all when he gets back. If he does. Ford still doesn’t have his driver’s license, and he drives like a drunk mule.”_

_I hate mysteries like this one!_  

* * *

 The whole trip up to Canada and back actually didn’t take more than fourteen hours, but when Soos landed that night in Portland, he had to wait for about two more hours for everything to clear through Customs. Finally, though, the big black car took the long box aboard. Soos climbed in beside Mr. Valentino.

“I’m sorry,” the usually cheerful man said gently.

Soos nodded his thanks. “I’m kinda tired out, Mr. Valentino. If you don’t mind, I’ll try to nod off on the drive back. You can take care of—?”

“Yes, of course. Melody has been in touch with Father Perez. The vigil will be tomorrow night in the parlor, and the Mass the day after at the church. Is that all right?”

“Yeah,” Soos said. “Whatever Melody arranged is all right. Uh, do you, like bill us, or—”

“It’s all taken care of, Mr. Ramirez. Your employee insurance.”

Soos blinked, not entirely form sleepiness. “Huh. They told me the same thing up at the Canadian hospital. And they had everything ready for me to sign out, even the—you know, the box. Funny. I don’t even remember having employee insurance.”

“You do, though, and it’s a good policy. Just about the best, I think. Why don’t you try to catch a little nap, son? I’ll wake you up when we get to Gravity Falls.”

The next morning Soos told the twins what had happened. Mabel sounded heartbroken: “Oh, Soos! I’m so sorry!”

He shrugged and even gave a little smile. “Hey, this year he _almost_ made it back for my birthday.”

Dipper rubbed his arm awkwardly. “If—you know, if you need us for anything—just, well, you know, ask.”

“Thanks, dude.”

A surprising number of people from town attended the Vigil that night. The Valentino Funeral Home parlor was packed, except for the front two pews, where only a few people sat: just the immediate family, plus Wendy and her dad, both Stans, and of course Dipper and Mabel, Dipper in a dark suit, Mabel in a dark dress and hat. Wendy also wore black—Dipper realized he had never seen her look so solemn—but instead of a hat, she wore a black lacy scarf, a gift from Soos’s Abuelita.

There were prayers, but no long eulogies. No one knew much about Mr. Finster.

Soos, though, wanted to say a word, and they all listened respectfully. “I didn’t really know my father,” he said softly, standing up front. “He left home when I was, like, four. I saw him one time after that, last winter, when he came to visit me. He slept for most of a day and then left. You know, I used to feel real hurt because he was gone. But I’ve come to realize that over the years, though I haven’t had a father, I’ve had a family. My Abuelita, God bless her, was mother and father to me. Thank you for bein’ there for me.” Soos held out his hand, and his Abuela got up and came to stand beside him, looking up at him with a kind of pride. Soos kissed her forehead.

Then he said, “An’ I had a Dad in Stanley Pines. Mr. Pines, thank you, dawg. And I had a sister in Wendy Corduroy, and a younger one in Mabel and a little brother in Dipper. I even got a kind of an uncle when Dr. Stanford Pines showed up. Hey, I love you all so much. Will you stand with me?”

They came. Mabel was sobbing into a tissue, and Dipper was gulping hard. Wendy reached to hold his hand. He felt Stan’s hand on one shoulder and Ford’s on the other.

Soos said, “I only wish that my father had known about you guys. Maybe it would have made him happy to know that though he and my Mom both left me, I was never alone. And now I have a wife in Melody, and, well, I’ll say we’re lookin’ forward to the future. So now I’ll say farewell to a father that I would have liked to have known better. For the rest of you, I can only say you can’t change the past, dudes, but you don’t have to forget it, either, so I’ll remember him for the rest of my life.”

On the way back to the Shack, Soos muttered, “I hope what I said made sense.”

“Perfect sense,” Ford, who was driving—fairly competently—told him.

“It was beautiful,” Stan said.

“Uh—Mr. Pines? I didn’t know about, uh—the employee insurance?”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “You were covered from day one, when you started work, what when you were twelve? I took care of the paperwork.”

Dipper thought he knew what that really meant. Evidently Soos did, too, because he said, “I owe you a big one, Mr. Pines.”

After the Mass the next day—even more crowded, with lots of people who knew the Ramirez family showing up, along with church members who were friends of theirs—they stood in the cemetery of St. Mathias Catholic Church as Father Perez said the prayers and then they watched as the coffin was lowered. Soos said, “I’ll have to see about buying a stone marker.”

“Taken care of,” Stan Pines said gruffly.

 

* * *

 

_**2: Visitors** _

Stanley was sitting on the porch of the Mystery Shack a few hours later when an unfamiliar car pulled into the lot: obviously an upscale rental, a Lexus LS luxury sedan. Stan’s crook sense tingled as a tall, square-built man, about thirty or thirty-five, climbed out, hitched his jacket— _Packin’ it in a shoulder holster_ , Stan thought—and, looking around as though curious about the surroundings, ambled across the lot. Stan stood up and stepped off the porch, cutting him off. “We’re closed,” he said. “Death in the family.”

The stranger looked him up and down. Cold eyes, empty eyes. “Lookin’ for a Jesús Ramirez Finster,” he said.

 _Huh. West-side Philly_ , Stan thought, nailing the accent. “He’s out. Went for a walk for a little privacy. I’m his business partner. Can I help you?”

“I’m a debt collector,” the stranger said. “His father died owin’ money. My boss wants to be paid, see?”

“I see,” Stan said, squinting. “Your boss wouldn’t by any chance be Fast Eddie Pinter, would he?”

The big man blinked. “So this Finster guy told you? Well, then you know how it is.”

“Uh-huh. Tell you what, Mr.—”

“You can call me Jonesy.”

“I see. Well, I’m Stan, Mr. Jonesy. You sit here, have a Pitt Cola on the house, and I’ll go find him. He’ll be out in the woods there. I know just where he goes.”

“You gonna be back soon?”

“Maybe half an hour.”

“I’ll wait that long. Then I might get restless.”

Stan smiled as he chucked change into the vending machine and handed Jonesy a frosty can of cola. “I gotcha. Let me get my nephew to help me look, an’ we’ll probably be back in even less time.”

A minute later in the Shack, Dipper, now changed back into his civvies, whispered, “You want WHAT?”

“C’mon,” Stan said. “It’s kinda urgent.”

Dipper looked into the parlor, where the rest of the family, plus Wendy, was sitting and talking, and Soos was just listening with a smile on his face. “Well—okay. Let me suit up.”

When they came back outside, Dipper was wearing his pine-tree hat and—reflective sunglasses. So was Stan. “We’ll be back in less than half an hour,” Stan said.

It took about ten minutes to go to the correct spot in the woods. It took only another minute for the resident—notoriously territorial—to emerge. A little longer for Dipper, who was best at communicating, to make it clear what they wanted.

He turned to Stan. “Uh, Grunkle Stan, the Gremloblin wants to know what’s in it for him.”

Stanley sighed. “Okay, tell ‘im I’ll give him a new Singin’ Salmon in the box, plus a supply of batteries.”

The deal was done. A few minutes later, back at the Shack, Jonesy tossed the empty soda can aside into the yard and stood up. “That was quick,” he said. “So where’s Finster and the kid?”

“Comin’,” Stan said as he bent to retrieve the can. He crumpled it in his big hand and tossed it into the recycling box. “Let’s go around to the side. More privacy. Then I’ll leave you two alone to work things out.”

“Smart of you, Gramps,” Jonesy growled. He patted his chest under his left armpit. _Amateur_ , Stan thought.

In the side yard, not far from the Bottomless Pit, Stan moved so that Jonesy, facing him, had his back to the woods. Jonesy said, “I’m gonna smoke.”

“You won’t have time,” Stan said with a smile.

“Huh. Watch me.” Jonesy got a cigarette in his mouth—and then someone tapped his shoulder. He spun, his mouth gaping, losing the cigarette, his right hand twitching as he reached for his weapon, but it is impossible to draw from a shoulder holster when two powerful hands the size of catcher’s mitts have clamped on both your arms.

Whatever it was, it hauled him up so his feet dangled two feet from the ground—and then it stared into his eyes and he stared back and his world shattered.

* * *

 

The building in West Philadelphia looked rundown, and on the outside, it was. Inside, though, it was richly decorated and comfortable. It looked like an exclusive men’s club, and again, in a way, it was.

A grumpy-looking guy about seventy-five sat behind a desk you could have landed a helicopter on and glared at Mr. Jones. “You didn’t get the money,” he said flatly.

“No, sir, Mr. Pinter. I—I—I—” he fell to his knees on the thick shag carpet. “Please don’t send me back to Oregon! I can’t take it! I won’t go!” He reached inside his jacket, produced a chrome-plated Colt .45, and laid it on the desk. “If you want, you can get behind me and do it. Do it clean. But I won’t go back to Oregon!”

Pinter glared at the automatic and shook his head. “You got the guy’s marker?”

Trembling, Jones took an envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk. He swallowed and shivered and muttered, “They—they—they—put me on a bus back to the—the airport. They—they—had to give me folded towels to sit on!”

"Yeah, next time that happens, change ya pants before you come into my office. This rug was five hundred bucks a square yard." Pinter looked at the document and the Gravity Falls Mystery Shack business card that someone had stapled to it. His eyebrows rose. “Here, take this hunk of junk. I don’t want that thing,” he told Jones, pushing the Colt back across the desk. “And you take the rest of the week off.”

“You—you gonna have me whacked?”

“We don’t do business like that no more. Unless you irritate me by bein' too slow. Go!”

Jones grabbed the weapon and left in a hurry.

With a sigh, Pinter called his secretary in and handed her the business card. “Call Mr. Pines on the clean line,” he said. “Buzz me when you got him on.”

He had to wait less than thirty seconds. Gloria was that good. The buzzer sounded and he picked up. Before he could even speak, a raspy voice said, “Hiya, Pinky! Long time no see.”

“Stanny?” Pinter asked, starting to smile. “That really you at this whackadoodle Mystery Shack place?”

“Really me. Want me to prove it? Remember when you were recruitin’ for the Union among the barnacle scrapers? That goon Management hired to take ya out? He had a tire iron as I recall, and you were down for the count.”

Pinter chuckled. “Ah, just restin’, Stanny, just restin’. I was gonna get up and knock him for a loop until you come along and punched him out—with a chair.”

“Yeah, well, I was sixteen and had just had four years of boxin’ lessons then. And he was like thirty and had eighty pounds on me and six inches in reach. The chair was prudent. I believe in a fair fight, but you even the odds when ya can. So how’s it hangin’, ya old bum?”

“Ah, I got an ulcer and hemorrhoids, so when I eat Gloria’s cookin’, I get _agita_ comin’ an’ goin’. Stanny, you must be in pretty good shape. You done a number on Jonesy.”

“Pinky, hand ta God, it just took lookin’ him straight in the eye. He gonna be OK?”

“Yeah, only he’s been in his line eleven years. That’s a long time for muscle. I’m thinkin' I'll move him up to middle management. He ain’t dumb, should do all right. Now, Stanny, I got this here marker from a Jacob Howard Finster.  What we gonna do about that?”

“How much was the principal?”

“Five large and change.”

“And the vig?”

“That’s six months and some. That’s up to three hundred K.”

“Nice work if you can get it. Look, Pinky, your boy tried to take it off of Finster’s son. Only he ain’t got it, see? Now, Finster was a _nice_ guy. That was sarcasm if you couldn’t tell. Jerk deserted the family when his kid was four. Didn’t go to his wife’s funeral, even. Only saw his kid once after—when his boy had turned twenty-two. Asked him for a loan. Ya know what, Pink? I adopted that kid when he was twelve. He’s _family._ So where do we stand?”

“You willing to pay the principal?”

“Yeah, if you guarantee to leave him alone. He’s gonna be a papa.”

Pinter laughed out loud. “You’re gonna be a grandpop! Hey, Stanny, I got five grandkids of my own, two great-grandkids! Let me tell ya, you’ll love it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I already got a great-niece and nephew, so I’m getting’ practice in. Where do I send the dough?”

After a pause, Pinter said, “What the hell, Stanny, just keep it. Let’s call it a present, one grandpop to another. We good with that?”

“Yeah. If nobody’s gonna come back and—”

“Nah, you got my word, Stanny. Hey, you wouldn’t believe it, but since I took over from the old man our business has got like ninety per cent legit.”

“Better’n mine. Mine’s a hundred per cent fraud.”

Pinter laughed again. “Hey, good talkin’ to you, cousin.”

“Same here, Pink.”

“Yeah, but Stanny, seriously, if you’re ever in Philly—don’t look me up.”

“Hah! And if you make it to the West Coast, Pink, forget where I live.”

“Deal." Then, with surprising warmth, Pinter added, "Good talkin' to ya, kid. Keep well, Stanny. And mazeltov.”

“Thanks, Pink. Be well yourself.”

Pinter didn’t even have to buzz after he hung up. Gloria just appeared there behind his chair. “You big old softy,” she teased, reaching down and massaging his shoulders.

“He’s a cousin. It’s family, Glo,” Pinter said with a grin. “Look, get Mr. Ambrose in next Monday. Tell him we need to write off—” he checked the numbers on the slip—“$309,795.33 as an uncollectable debt. He’s a smart accountant, he can tuck it somewhere, maybe in the theater business, as a tax loss. Those movie bums lose money like their pockets had no seams in the bottom.” Pinter held up the marker and the business card, shrugged, and tore them in half, then again. He crumpled them and tossed them across the room to the wastebasket. Two points.

He stretched. “What’s for dinner, darling?”

Firmly, Gloria said, “Your diet plate of roast chicken breast, mashed potatoes, no salt, and steamed greens.”

He slapped her rump. “Ah, you’re gonna kill your husband.”

“Nah,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “I’d never do that.”

“You love me, don’t ya, doll?”

She shrugged. “Eh, I’m used to you.”

“I’ll take it.”

* * *

 

_**3** **. A Green Place** _

The afternoon following the funeral, Wendy asked Mabel and Dipper if they’d like to come with her on a little hike. They did, and she, wearing her regular clothes, flannel shirt, jeans, and boots, advised them them to dress for a woodsy walk, too.

It was about four miles from the Corduroy place, a grassy hilltop overlooking a big stretch of the valley, with the Falls in the distance. The small private cemetery had been fenced in with a cast-iron railing. Four markers stood in it, none fresh, one practically ancient. Dipper read the names on the stone crosses: “Augustus Corduroy, 1887-1956. David Corduroy, 1925-2004. Mizoula Corduroy, 1930-1998. Amanda Corduroy, 1967-2002.”

“Great-grandpop, granddad, grandmother, and Mom,” Wendy said softly.

She had been carrying a backpack. She unzipped it and took out clippers and a stiff nylon brush.

“Can we help?” Mabel asked.

“Sure, dudes. Dad likes the grass about three inches long and pretty even, so Mabel, you take these.” She handed her a heavy pair of grass shears. “Dip, take the brush and scrub the crud off the markers, OK? I’m gonna clip down these saplings. This hilltop would go back to woods in a year if we let it.”

It took them a couple of hours. Afterward, Wendy sat near the graves, chewing on a stem of grass. “Funerals always make me wanna come here and check on Mom,” she said. “Pretty place, huh?”

“Beautiful,” Mabel said. “So green and peaceful. And the whole valley there—town and Falls.”

“Mom’s favorite spot, Dad told me.”

Dipper hesitated, but then asked, “Wendy—does it make you sad to come here?”

“Well, yeah, dude. I didn’t really know my grandparents much. Remember my granddad a little, but he was kinda private after Mizoula died, Dad says. Not as outgoing as Stan. But yeah, I think about Mom and I’m a little sad. But then, death is a part of life, right?”

“It scares me to think of it,” Mabel said. “I hate to think of being separated from everybody I love. Especially from Dipper.”

“Never happen,” Wendy said. “You’re the good guys. Wherever we go when we go on, you guys’ll be together.”

“We’ll look for you, too,” Dipper said.

She grinned. “I dunno. I’ve done some pret-ty mean things from time to time!”

“No,” Dipper said. “You put ‘em all on one side of a scale and all that’s good about you in the other—no contest.”

“Well,” Wendy said, “anyhow, I wanted you to see this, share it with me. It gives me a feeling of peace. I hope it does you, too.”

“It does,” Mabel said softly. “Thank you.”

Dipper frowned. “But,” he said, “it kinda makes me feel like there’s something I have to do.”

 

* * *

 

 

_**4\. Repayment** _

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines** : _Thursday, July 19: I’ve been thinking since the funeral about Soos and Mr. Finster. And other things. I’ve asked Mabel and Wendy if they’d go with me tomorrow. And I told Fiddleford what I needed, and he used his metal working skills to produce just the right things, within a couple of hours. We’re going out early in the morning._

* * *

 

They saw several Gnomes as they walked out past the old ruined McGucket home. None of them spoke, but simply vanished into the undergrowth and kept following them—even when the three crossed Creepy Hollow, which for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years had been a place no Gnome would go.

They arrived at a spot beneath a low bluff. Above it, in the side of the cliff, a cave like a gaping mouth about to throw up opened into darkness. “Must’ve been about here,” Dipper said. “Wendy, you have the hammer?”

“Right here, man,” she said, holding up a ball-peen hammer. “Want me to do it?”

“No, thanks, I got it. I owe them that much.”

Fiddleford had produced a cast-bronze plaque with two long sharp spikes on either side. It wasn’t large, maybe nine inches wide by six high, but it had embossed lettering on it:

**In Memory of**

**Dippers 5-10, Paper Jam Dipper, and Tyrone, d. 2012**

**and Dippers 3 and 4, d 2013**

Dipper drove the spikes into the earth until only the plaque showed above the surface. “People will probably think it’s a pet grave or something,” he said.

“People who count will know better, dude,” Wendy told him.

Mabel laid a dozen roses in front of it. “Rest in peace, guys,” she whispered. They stood for a while.

To Dipper’s surprise, a few dozen Gnomes came up and stood, too, with their heads bowed, just silently looking at the marker. Suspecting that none of them could read it, Dipper slowly read the inscription out loud as they all listened. Tears dripped from a few faces.

And then, as if someone had given an unseen and unheard signal, humans and Gnomes turned slowly and walked away from Death and back into Life, and the period of grief melted like snow on the first warm day of spring.

* * *

 

_The End_


End file.
